Murder of a Small-Town Honey

search had turned out to be more like a scavenger hunt than

the simple task she was expecting. After being directed to at least ten different locations, she finally located the fold­ers in the basement next to the cleaning supplies. They were moist and smelled like a mixture of mold, pine scent, and lemon.

Taking the records from their damp cardboard boxes, Skye put them into her new file cabinet, stopping now and then to separate pages that were sticking together. They completely filled one drawer and part of the second. She didn't attempt to read them, but was content with putting them into some recognizable order... like alphabetical.

After an hour of sorting out the records of the students currently enrolled in the Scumble River Junior High special education program, she looked at her watch and realized she hadn't been back to talk to Darleen. She stuffed the re­maining folders into the cabinet, locked it, and hurried to the special ed room. She arrived just in time to find Darleen locking the door.

Skye apologized, and they made another appointment, for the next day during Darleen's planning period. Darleen seemed relieved that she didn't have to talk to Skye that day after all.

It was nearly five that afternoon, and Skye had finished up at school only half an hour ago. She rested her hip casu­ally against the registration desk of the Up A Lazy River Motor Court and scanned the small office, noting that little had changed in the years she'd been away. The walls were still painted a drab brown, the desktop was still scarred and in need of refinishing, and the only chair remained occu­pied by her honorary Uncle Charlie, who was busy barking orders into the phone.

When she had first arrived, Charlie's gray color and rapid breathing had scared her. He'd just been ending a telephone call when Skye walked through the door, and she heard something about paying someone some money by

Friday. She had tried to ask what was going on, but the phone rang again, and Charlie had been on one call or an­other ever since.

At least his color was better and he seemed more like his usual self—aggravated, headed toward infuriated, possibly not stopping until he hit fully enraged. 'We are not refund­ing the parade entrants' fees. Check the contract the carni­val people signed. No refunds for an act of God.' He listened for a few seconds. 'And I say murder is covered under that clause.'

The window air conditioner labored in an attempt to keep the tiny room cool. When Skye had driven past the Scumble River First National Bank, the thermometer read ninety-one degrees. The humidity hung like used plastic wrap.

Skye dug into her purse until she found a coated rubber band. She gathered her hair into a thick ponytail and nar­rowed her green eyes against the smoke from Charlie's cigar. Tapping her fingernails on the counter, she waited for him to hang up.

He pounded on the desk and yelled, 'Then check with your goddamn lawyer! Why in the hell did you call me in the first place?'

Charlie banged down the phone and ran sausagelike fin­gers through his thick white hair, then heaved himself out of the battered wooden swivel chair and swooped Skye into a bear hug.

Intense blue eyes under bushy white brows scrutinized her face. 'Are you okay with what happened yesterday? Everyone treating you right? Anyone bothering you, just let me know, and I'll take care of them. Nobody better mess with my goddaughter.'

She was breathless, but returned his hug. 'Uncle Char­lie, you haven't changed a bit. I'm fine. They're all being nice to me. I just wanted to thank you again. I don't know what I'd have done without this job.'

Releasing her, he settled back down into the creaking chair. 'We should thank you. We've been trying to hire a school psychologist since the middle of last year. The last one we had up and quit in November. Said we weren't pay­ing enough for the amount of problems he had to deal with. And you know we've never been able to keep a social worker—they say we're too primitive.'

Skye frowned. 'What kind of problems was he referring to?'

'We never could figure that out. Sure, we've got our share of troubles. Usually at least one suicide or drowning a year, child abuse, family feuds... but that goes on every­where, right?'

Her one year of experience had ended with her being fired, so she was hardly an expert on what was usual. Not wanting to talk about her last job, Skye answered evasively, 'Guess I'll find out soon enough. Maybe being from town will help.'

Sighing, she leaned her forearms against the desk. 'So, tell me all the gossip. What's this about Mrs. Gumtree re­ally being only in her thirties?'

'Everybody is sure talking about this murder, but no one is saying anything. It was a terrible thing, you finding her like that. We don't want anyone thinking that you're a wit­ness or anything, so you make sure everyone knows you didn't see a thing when you were in that trailer. You didn't see anything, right?'

'Nope. But everyone sure is interested in what I didn't see.'

'Good. You make sure you tell everyone you didn't see anything and you don't know anything.' Charlie shook his finger in her face.

'Sure.' Skye shrugged. 'What do you know about her? I never heard of Mrs. Gumtree before all this happened.'

'She was just a character actress on a children's televi­sion show.'

'Funny, I haven't heard about her from the kids.'

'Her show, Mrs. Gumtree 's Gumdrop Lane, is only on in the Chicago area.' Charlie finished his cigar and stubbed it out in the overflowing ashtray at his elbow. 'But I did hear there was talk of syndication.'

Skye shrugged, losing interest. 'Do they have any idea who killed her?'

'The police chief is still trying to get in touch with her agent or someone from that TV station. It seems they all went away for the weekend.'

She reached for the motor court's register. 'Gee, I won­der if any of them weekended in Scumble River.'

'Mike Young says it's gotta be someone from Chicago, like her publicist or personal manager. He says all those show business people are sinners and abominations in the eyes of God.' Charlie slid the ledger out of her grasp and into his desk drawer.

'When did he become God's messenger? The week be­fore I left town, he was sent to prison for dealing drugs. Now he dresses like a lawyer and talks like a TV evange­list.'

'You're way behind. Mike only spent eighteen months in prison. He's been out over ten years. He's hardworking and God-fearing now.' Charlie sat back, thinking out loud. 'Why, Mike's active in his church and makes a good living. That other stuff was just wild oats when he was a teenager.'

'I really don't remember him very well. He was a friend of Vince's from high school, but they were four years ahead of me. Do you know anything about his jail time, or was it kept a secret?'

'Skye, honey, you been away too long if you think there isn't a person in Scumble River who doesn't know every last detail. There are no secrets here.'

'Except for the murderer's identity,' Skye said quietly. Moving closer to Charlie, she asked, 'Who do you think killed her?'

'Well, now that you mention it, I thought I saw the prin­cipal of the junior high, Lloyd Stark, hanging around her dressing room yesterday. I only saw him from the back, so I didn't get a good look. Of course, I'm probably not a very good judge because I just plain don't like him.' Charlie put his arm around her.

'Wonderful. That should make my job easy, since he knows you were behind my getting hired.'

'He won't give you any trouble. He knows I won't put up with any bull. In fact, you could do me a little favor.'

'What?' Skye crossed her arms and backed away.

'Hey, don't be like that. I get the feeling all is not right with Lloyd. He's hiding something from the school board. I want you to nose around and let me know if you hear or see anything suspicious.'

She rolled her eyes. 'Charlie, you're skeptical of anyone who has a different opinion than yours. I can't spy on my new principal.'

'Don't think of it as spying. Think of it as being a good listener and an intense observer. Kind of like the job de­scription of a psychologist, isn't it?' Charlie walked her to the door.